


the best laid plants

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, my boy doesn't do well with metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Freshly discharged from the Army, Mac is looking for some stability, something to ground him. He takes up gardening.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 61





	the best laid plants

Jack fiddles with the radio. The concrete and steel of the parking structure interfere with the signal, causing sporadic bursts in the middle of his favorite songs. Instead of annoyance, it harkens back to memories of working in the garage or the barn with his pop. Under the hood of the GTO or tinkering with the tractor. Only the classics on the radio then were Elvis and Chuck Berry. Now the classic rock station includes Guns ‘n Roses and Nirvana. Jack doesn’t feel like those are old enough to be considered classic rock. 

He had a radio in the Sandbox, because sometimes an mp3 player didn’t soothe the wistful longing for home the same way a radio did. A gift from his pop when he graduated high school, the old thing shouldn't still be functioning. 

Functioning might be generous. 

It sputtered and crackled until Jack was ready to toss it in frustration. But it made him think of his pop. And superstition made him suck it up for the last two months of his tour. He’d had it this long, and lived to tell about it.  If the radio could survive the sandwich of a couple of tours, a stint with the CIA, and another couple of tours, maybe he could too. And his mind was dark enough that it’s not like he was listening to a lot of music those days anyway. 

Ninety-some odd hours until his transport home. He’d been downrange long enough to make a few friends, though he’d nearly sabotaged all of them a few months back. Brooding and moody. Snarling at anyone who tried getting too close until some dumb blond nerd broke the curse like something out of a fairy tale. He should be making the informal rounds, saying his goodbyes to guys he’d known for years, some of them nearing a decade. Instead, he found himself longing for the easy camaraderie of Mac’s presence. Distressed by the lack of time he had left with the kid, he didn’t want to waste a minute of it. 

Mac’s eyes had gone wide when Jack came around the Humvee calling for him.

He was hanging out the back of the vehicle, a screwdriver in one hand, and paperclip dangling between his lips. 

Scrambling out of the Humvee, he almost took a header into the sand if Jack hadn't caught his shoulder. 

He’d argue later that it was Jack’s fault he got up, so it’s only fair that he caught him. 

“Hey, Jack,” uncertainty was written in his face, eyes dropping in guilt, then licking his lips and meeting Jack’s gaze. Smiling like he was hiding something. 

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you up to, Mac?"

"I'm sorry," Mac rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I said I wouldn't touch your stuff but…"

Jack's eye bounced from Mac to the back of the vehicle. "What…" 

"I - I boosted the range. It's not… well, I didn't have the right pieces. And I know I should have asked, I’m sorry. I do remember our rules, but after what happened a couple of weeks ago I want to... and then last week with that pressure plate, and I kind of thought that might be the end. When I took it apart it was made with radio components and I was pretty sure they were from the same type as yours but I didn’t want to make any promises that I could do something with it, in case I couldn't, but I thought I-”

“Whoa, slow down, take a breath, kid.”

Mac takes a step to the side, gesturing to the radio resting in the back of the Humvee. “I know, we agreed, I don’t touch your stuff,” Mac begins again but slower this time. “But after everything we’ve been through, and with you leaving in a few days, I wanted to give you something. Not that there’s much around here that you’d want to take home.”

“That’s my radio?”

“It’s always got so much static, I know it drives you nuts sometimes. I know I should have asked, I’m sorry, but I thought I could fix it and you’d never even have to know I messed with it. And I was right, those pieces from that pressure plate were from your radio. Or the same type as yours…” Mac shrugged, voice trailing off sheepishly. He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask…”

"No." Jack swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. "You… you used pieces of a bomb that you disarmed."

"They won't explode. I'm sorry."

"Stop. Stop saying you're sorry. This is the bomb that almost took me out?"

Mac nodded.

"Dude, I… I'm… I don't know what to say. That's about the nicest thing anyone's ever done." Jack reached out, pulling Mac into a quick, tight hug. 

Mac stiffened at the unexpected contact, pulling back reflexively. Then he paused, relaxing minutely into the embrace and offering Jack a quick slap on the back. 

Jack released the hug a moment later. “So, does it work?”

“It should,” Mac said. “Haven’t tested it yet. Do you want to do the honors?”

Jack stepped up, flicking on the radio, he fiddled with the dial for a moment until the clear, twangy notes and staccato baseline rang through the speaker. 

_ “I gotta ramble on, sing my song _ _   
_ _ Gotta work my way around the world…”  _

Mac beamed.

Jack grinned back, slapping the kid's should in excitement and swallowed hard. He was surprised at the ache the song caused. The lyrics declared that he had no time for spreading roots. That it was time to go. 

Maybe… maybe he wasn’t ready to go yet.

And maybe it was time to at least consider laying down some roots. 

The door to the GTO opens suddenly, startling Jack back to the present and he curses himself for his lack of awareness. 

Mac is too focused on lowering himself into the passenger to notice Jack’s surprise. He eases his leg over the running board and into the car, tucking his crutches in next to him.

“Thought I told you not to stay.”

Jack shrugs and lies. “I didn’t. Came back when you told me you thought you’d be done.” 

Mac glances over his shoulder at the parking structure of the busy medical complex. “Wow. Can’t believe you managed to get the exact same spot as when you dropped me off.”

“I know, I thought that was crazy too,” he takes in Mac’s pinched features. “What’d the doc say?”

“Keep the boot on for another few weeks,” Mac massages the ache from his thigh. “He wants to see me again in two.”

“You got an appointment already or do you need to make one?”

Mac fishes the reminder card from his pocket and passes it over to Jack. “Don’t know why he keeps saying he wants to see me. I wait around for almost an hour and then he comes in just long enough to say keep the boot on, stay on the crutches, and he’ll see me in a week or two. It’s a waste of time.”

“The doc downrange said it was a bad break. They weren’t even sure they’d be able to fix it.”

“Wish he’d at least let me start some physical therapy or something.”

“It’ll come. In a couple weeks I’ll be picking you up from therapy. You’ll be moaning and groaning and dreaming of these relaxin’ days of leisure.”

Mac snorts and Jack concedes. 

“Nah, you’re right. You’ve never been one for sittin’ still.” The engine of the GTO turns over. “How’s the noggin’?” Jack taps his head.

“Better, I guess. Still having some light sensitivity,” Mac sighs. “Can’t go for a run. Can’t read. Can’t even watch a movie without getting a headache.”

“Wait, thought today was your surgeon and your therapist.”

“As long as you were driving me over here I thought I’d try to get established with a primary care doctor too.”

“You didn’t say anything about that.”

Mac shrugs. “You kept nagging me about it. Kept saying that I needed to.”

“And you do.”

“So I did.”

“No wonder you were in a funk this morning. That’s too many doctors to see in one day. I’d drive you a different time.” 

“Why ruin another day?” Mac turns looking out the window. 

Jack studies the kid out of the corner of his eye as he winds his way through side streets and back roads, avoiding the freeway. A misnomer in LA. The roadways are never free. 

Mac’s brow is creased, the hamster wheels turning at a steady pace. 

Jack keeps the radio low, filling the background, humming softly. He knows from experience that Mac gets quiet, contemplative after an appointment with his therapist. And downright cranky if he doesn’t get the chance to process the things that were said in the session. And having a session after spending the morning in waiting rooms, and getting poked and prodded is a recipe for a cantankerous Mac. 

He bites his lip, forcing himself to ignore the third sigh that comes from the kid in five minutes. 

If he doesn’t want Mac to do something dumb like drive on his broken leg with post-concussive syndrome, he’s got to ignore the sound coming from Mac that would normally put him on high alert. 

He keeps a sly eye on Mac. Not that the kid in paying enough attention to know he's being watched. He stares with unseeing eyes out the passenger window. It’s a familiar look these days. Adjusting to civilian life is hard.  Jack doesn’t think that’s fair. After living on high alert, telling your brain and body to stand down, to remember what the safety and security of home felt like, is a challenge. Mac’s got the nightmares, the thousand-mile stare, and the flashbacks down pat.

Mac's still pale. Jack hoped after he was released from the hospital into the California sunshine, he might pick up a little color. He's lost some weight too, which Jack tries not to let bother him. He knows it bothers Mac. The kid isn’t lugging around fifty pounds of equipment all day every day, or participating in mandatory physical training, he reminds them both, he’s bound to lose a little muscle. It’s not just his poor appetite. 

Or his poor sleep habits. 

Or healing from an injury that Jack thought had killed him. 

Jack knows the blank spot in his memory is another sore point with Mac, glaring at Jack for refusing to disclose the last mission in the sandbox, but Jack takes it as a blessing. He can only hope that the kid never remembers screaming himself hoarse at the pain of nearly being torn apart. That he doesn’t remember Jack holding him down, putting pressure on his wounds despite Mac’s pleading. Ordering Mac to keep breathing. Because Jack will never forget it.

The smell of death and blood and explosives. The screams, the begging, the cries for God or their mothers from the men who didn’t make it. 

Mac saved a lot of lives that day, but he only focuses on the ones that went home in a box. 

And Jack knows that grief, but he’s selfish, and he thanks God every day that Mac wasn’t one of them.

He feels Mac’s eyes on him.

“You’re thinking about it.”

Jack shrugs. “Never really stop.”

Mac’s jaw clenches. “Guess I don’t really know how that feels.”

“Good.”

Mac turns back out the window. “You could tell me.”

“Doc said not to push it.”

“Cause you’re so good at following doctor’s orders.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.” 

Mac rolls his eyes. 

“I’ve told you the important stuff. You saved nine lives. You pulled off a miracle.”

“Two are dead.”

“Yeah, and it’s not fair. But that’s not on you,” Jack says, taking his eyes off the road to make sure Mac is listening to him. “It’s not your fault.”

Mac shrugs. It’s the same discussion they’ve had since the day Mac woke up.

“Those nine guys you saved that day, each one of them owes you their life, cause they’d all be dead if you weren’t there. Me included. And I’m a selfish bastard, but I’m so damn grateful that you don’t remember. I’m so grateful that you’re sitting here with me right now, even if you aren’t.” 

Jack can see it, the way Mac doesn’t know how to respond to these words. To the affirmation that his life is worth something. He’s had so few people in his life tell him he’s important, that have put his needs first.   


“And, I’ll tell you what, Bozer is grateful too.”

Mac swallows hard and nods, turning back to the window. 

Jack scrubs a hand over his face, worrying that he’s upset their delicate equilibrium in trying to get Mac to understand his value, seeing his importance outside of just his usefulness. Jack still doesn't know much about Mac's childhood, he's cagey about it, but he's revealed enough for Jack to put some of the pieces together. He'd like a nice long chat with this kid's father and whoever else messed this kid up so badly. Whoever taught him to look at his successes and only see his failures. The man should consider himself lucky he ain't around anymore or he might find himself getting acquainted with Jack's fist.

Bozer put leftovers in the fridge for lunch,” Mac glances at the clock on the dash. “Or whatever this is.”

“Yeah?” Jack perks up. “That boy can cook.” 

“Lucky for us.”

“Speak for yourself there, slick. I can throw down.”

“Really?” Mac raises a disbelieving eyebrow. It’s a strange thing, to know each other so intimately in some ways, the fears that keep each other up at night, living in the other’s pocket for a year, but learning now, who they are when they’re allowed to just live. Jack wonders if Mac even knows himself. Barely allowed to begin living before thrust into a nightmare. 

“You think the only thing I’m good for is bustin’ heads?”

Mac gives a teasing shrug. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll prove it to ya. Just name the day,” Jack says, pulling onto the exit that will take them to Mac’s home. “I’m an even better cook than I am a sniper.”

Mac is contemplative during the rest of the driving. It takes a tap on his shoulder to stir him from his thoughts after Jack shuts off the engine.  Hobbling up the driveway on his crutches, he refuse assistance as he follows Jack into the house but allows himself to be directed into a chair at the table, propping his bad leg on the chair next to him while Jack heats the leftovers. Absently, he picks at his lunch while Jack pretends he isn’t watching every bite. 

“Alright," Jack breaks the silence when he finishes his meal and Mac's less than halfway through. "You can tell me to shove it, but I think there’s something else that’s munching on your brain today.”

“It’s something Doctor Cecelia said,” Mac refers to his therapist, chewing thoughtfully.

It could be a touchy subject, but Mac didn't tell him to shove it, so Jack takes a breath and plunges ahead. “Anything you want to share?”

“She suggested I get a plant.”

“Huh,” Jack replies. That’s not the response he expected for the pensive look on Mac’s face. “A plant?”

Mac nods.

“Huh,” Jack says again. “Okay. Sure, I guess.”

“I don’t really know anything about plants.” 

“Did she have any suggestions for you? About why or the type or anything,” Jack frowns trying to remember through his many years and therapists and PTSD support groups if anyone ever suggested that he get a plant. It doesn’t ring a bell.

“She didn’t really say.”

Jack hums, trying to come up with a reason for the suggestion that could guide them in their search for the right plant. Maybe it’s like a trust exercise. Giving Mac something to take care of and to protect to help him process the guilt he feels at his perceived failure. That sounds therapist-y.  


“Maybe something easy like a cactus or a succulent? Not a cactus though, we’ve seen more than our share of those prickly little suckers.”

“I was thinking, I don’t know a plant that does something.”

“Well, most plants… don’t do much. At least that you can see.”

“Maybe like a fruit or a vegetable?”

Jack strokes the scruff on his cheek. "Well, yeah, I guess those plants kind of do something. But then you could say a flower does something too."

Mac shrugs, looking unimpressed with the idea of raising a flower. "I was thinking strawberries. Could put them on Bozer's waffles."

"I think you're looking at a whole garden and not just one plant then. That could be a lot of work."

“There are more roots then.”

Jack’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“That’s what she said. I should work on putting down roots.”

“Oh,” Jack breathes. “Hoss, I don’t know if she meant-”

“My mom had a garden,” Mac’s eyes grow vacant as he continues and Jack’s mouth snaps shut, not wanting to interrupt. Mac so infrequently speaks about his childhood, and even more rare that it’s a good memory. “She gave me my own patch of dirt to dig up and keep me out of trouble while she was out there working.”

Jack chuckles, envisioning an even younger version of his partner streaked with dirt. “And how did that go?”

“Well, I made some great mudpies and a huge mess,” Mac smiles sheepishly. “I wish I could remember more.”

“You were pretty young.”

“She grew strawberries and we would sit in the garden in the morning and eat them right off the plant,” the smile turns to a sigh. “I just feel like those memories are fading and I can’t stop them.”

Jack nods. He only lost his pop a few years ago, but he can already feel the ache of fading memories, desperately clutching at anything he can to keep them close. 

“Maybe… olfactory memories are strong so maybe, if I had a little strawberry patch in the back, it would remind me. Help so I don’t- so I don’t forget her.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Jack agrees, blinking rapidly. It might not have been what Mac’s therapist had in mind when she mentioned “laying down roots” but Jack thinks it’s at least as important as any of the lessons she wanted him to take away from that metaphor. 

“Yeah?” Mac looks up in surprise, as if he is expecting to be mocked for his idea or his wary excitement, and Jack has to swallow back the anger that burns in his chest directed toward whoever hurt Mac.   


“If you want, I’ll help ya. Especially while you’re still hobbling around on your bum leg.”

“I might take you up on that,” Mac says as a slow smile spreads across his face. “Maybe I’ll give you your own patch of dirt, to keep you out of trouble.” 

Mac jumps into garden research with fervor. Analyzing the soil and checking the pH level. He draws up plans and designs an irrigation system and Jack does most of the heavy lifting and toting, especially in the beginning.

The kid’s still pale, despite the hours he logs in the sunshine tending to his garden, but he looks happier. Healthier. More settled. The hard work improves his appetite and his sleep habits. It helps keep the nightmares at bay. He’s not healed but it’s a start. Jack wonders if he speaks with Doc Cecilia about his garden, wonders what her reaction was to his literal interpretation of her words.   


Jack sits in the corner that he claimed as his own, watching with a small, satisfied smile as Mac tastes the first fruits of his hard work. His old radio, the one Mac rebuilt for him, plays softly. The song slowly fading out.

_ “Gotta ramble on, sing my song,   
Make my way around the world…” _

He loves the Zep and the baseline is iconic, but they got it wrong. Sometimes it’s good to put down roots. 


End file.
